


La bohème

by Ratikait



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Gay Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Religious Conflict, nocturnal emissions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21970420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ratikait/pseuds/Ratikait
Summary: This is my Secret Santa gift for @dipendancesld on Tumblr, as part of the Ghost BC Fandom Events! I was extremely lucky to be able to create two gifts this year! Happiest of Holidays and Longest of Nights!Dipendancesld requested a story starring Emeritus III and Copia, set in 1920s Paris. It is romantic and explicit. It takes place in the Louvre, Sacré-Cœur, and Montmartre at night - including Moulin Rouge.Giacomo Copia is a young priest at La Basilique du Sacré Cœur de Montmartre who harbors a passion for Bohemian artists and before long, young artist Marcelo Emeritus.
Relationships: Cardinal Copia/Papa Emeritus III
Comments: 20
Kudos: 69
Collections: Ghost BC Secret Santa 2019





	La bohème

_Paris, France - April, 1923_

He was exquisite. Reclining decadently upon furs over rough-hewn marble. His legs were spread wide to expose himself, confidently inviting those who cared to look. In repose, his expression was relaxed and his lips parted. The muscles flexed beautifully just beneath his skin. Intricate curls adorned his head and pubis.

A young man in a black cassock nearby seemed to admire everything but the _Sleeping Faun_ sculpture by Edme Bouchardon. He stared at the masonry of the museum, but every few moments, his eyes flickered towards the nude marble statue.

The curious priest had visited the Musée du Louvre often in recent weeks. He had first visited following clerical rounds at the Hôtel-Dieu hospital. A new exhibit featuring a recent donation of Catholic artworks had enticed him as he approached the tramway stop back to Montmartre.

Jesus Christ was depicted in detail and splendor. Portraits of the Holy Virgin decorated the walls and sculptures of Jesus's crucifixion were erected. Their beauty brought tears to his eyes and he began to visit every other day after hospital rounds. Slowly, his interest grew beyond the exhibit devoted to his religion.

He ventured to other wings and admired secular works. The many paintings of Corot calmed him. Their relaxed landscapes and depictions of pastoral life transported him to a quieter place than Paris. Jean Ducreux's self portrait always drew a laugh from his lips as he passed.

In recent visits, he hurried through the atrium displaying Bouchardon's _Sleeping Faun_. Each time, he knew the statue that caused… unnatural feelings within him had not been moved. Still, he went out of his way to catch a glimpse of it.

One evening in late April, he hovered near the statue. He did not look at it, but at a sculpture of putti that was also by Bouchardon. A trinity of little cherubs flitted around each other.

"It's a copy, did you know?" A smooth voice asked from beside him.

The priest turned in confusion, uncertain that he was being spoken to. A handsome young man in a dark casual suit was looking at him, awaiting a response. The man's appearance stunned him. His hair was a glossy black and his skin a natural pallor generally reserved for the dead. His left eye was a deep green while his right was pale blue.

"The… the putti?" He finally spoke and gestured to the statue of cherubs.

The young man shook his head and a lock of hair fell over his pale eye.

"The _Faun_ you try so desperately not to stare at," the man replied.

The priest was taken aback and felt a flush spread over his cheeks. His eyes were wide as he stared speechless at the man.

"There is no reason for embarrassment. Everything on display is here to be admired. The artist deserves your attention for more than a clandestine glance, don't you think, Father?" The man asked with a cock of his eyebrow.

The priest nodded and turned to look directly at the sculpture he had avoided for days. It was so beautiful he sighed.

"Bouchardon copied the _Barberini Faun_ at the request of Louis XV. When it was finished, aristocrats, artists and scholars agreed he had improved upon it," the young man continued.

Still entranced by the statue, the priest hesitated before asking, "How did he improve it?"

The man stepped closer and pointed out areas as he spoke. "The details in the hair and musculature. His ease and naturalness in pose. The skin appears like it would be soft and smooth to the touch. Observe the crease in his stomach just above his navel. He convinces you it's not marble at all. That this sensual creature is able to ensnare you, even in slumber."

The priest's breathing was heavy, but he laboured to conceal it. An unnatural stirring – the same he had felt when he first set eyes on it – began to burn low in his stomach again. He removed his book of psalms from under his arm and held it firmly in front of him.

"You must be a student of the arts," he said after a pause.

The young man laughed. "It seems I am a teacher for the moment. But yes, I am an artist of many mediums. Though I am out of my element in this classicist tomb," He sneered as he gestured to the museum itself.

"You do not appreciate the works here?" The priest asked, breaking away from the statue. The young man was close and their bodies were nearly touching.

"I appreciate the works, Father. But I don't appreciate the dictates of the men who decide which works belong here." He leaned in close to the priest's ear and whispered, "I am here to recruit others to my cause."

In a low voice, the priest replied, "What cause is that?"

"To spread awareness of an independent exhibition that will be opening soon."

When a group passed the man straightened and tipped his head. 

"Emergency confession, couldn't wait," the young man lied and the group scurried passed.

The priest chuckled. "We don't do that just anywhere, Monsieur…" He let the phrase hang, hoping the man would fill it in.

"I'm Marcelo," the young man told him and held out a thin hand.

"Father Copia," the priest offered and shook his hand gently.

"As I was saying, I am a member of a group of independent artists who don't conform to the Salon's standards," Marcelo explained.

"A bohemian?" Copia wondered.

Marcelo chuckled and raked a hand through his hair.

"Something like that. You should come. It's opening in June, and I think you would enjoy it. Some visitors might even think you're part of the show," Marcelo quipped.

Copia smoothed a hand over his cassock, suddenly very aware of his vestments.

"Truth being told, I'm not much of a connoisseur of art. I shouldn't even be here," Copia admitted sheepishly.

"If it speaks to you, Father..." Marcelo placed a hand on his upper arm. "...You're meant to listen. Tell me, do you know Picasso?"

Copia's eyes lit up. "The cubist?"

Marcelo _'tsk'ed_ with a click of his tongue. "Not a connoisseur, you say? Well, if you enjoy cubism, there are a few artists exhibiting that may interest you. Not cubism, but the next wave! Surrealism and some interesting Art Deco pieces. Expressionism. It's being held at a gallery on Rue du Mont-Cenis near the basilica."

"I belong to the clergy of the Sacré-Cœur!" Copia exclaimed.

"It must be divine intervention then," Marcelo said with a wink. "I'm heading to my flat on Rue Lepic in a moment if you'd care for company on the tram, Father?"

Copia took one last unguarded look at the Sleeping Faun and nodded.

"I should be returning to my duties. Thank you, Marcelo."

The young man linked arms with him and steered him toward the entrance of the museum. Though unused to such attention, Copia made no attempt to pull himself free. His new acquaintance was warm and friendly, and he saw no reason to offend him.

They caught the tram quickly, but were forced to stand. After grabbing handholds they faced each other.

"Will you be displaying any work at the exhibition?" Copia wondered.

"Yes, a few canvases."

"In what style, assuming I've heard of it?" They shared a laugh at his self-deprecation.

"Expressionism. I'm obsessed with the core and the heart of my subjects, not the outer shell," Marcelo revealed.

His words were very similar to Copia's views on the parishioners he comforted and absolved. Somehow, the strange bohemian artist he had met less than an hour ago seemed to be a fitting companion.

The tram jerked as it crossed a railway and Copia's body collided with Marcelo's. Marcelo held him to his chest until he regained his footing. Mortified, Copia pulled away and regripped the handhold.

"Tell me, are you allowed out of Sacré-Cœur at night?" Marcelo asked after a tense moment.

"We're expected in the rectory by 9:00pm, unless we have an ecclesiastical reason to be out. Why?" Copia eyed him warily.

"Perhaps you can come out with me tomorrow night and convert some poor, wayward wretches." The offer hung in the air between them.

Self conscious thoughts pounded through Copia's head as he wondered what this artist would possibly gain from befriending a priest of no importance.

"Even if I did go out – which I can't – I doubt I would be any fun," Copia finally answered. "You must have many friends, I don't quite see my appeal."

Marcelo leaned forward to speak softly in his ear.

"You see Bouchardon's Faun the same way I do, that's why you appeal to me." His breath was hot on Copia's neck.

When Marcelo righted himself, Copia felt a small pang of loss. A light flush pooled in his cheeks.

"I have nothing to wear for a night out. I'm afraid my secular clothes are quite ragged," Copia admitted.

Marcelo dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"Well, of course I understand if you can't come out. But if something should entice you, I would lend you clothes. I'll give you my address, to be safe." Marcelo withdrew a small sketchbook and pencil from his trouser pocket and scribbled quickly between stops. He boldly took Copia's psalm book and slid the paper between the pages.

When he gave it back he caressed Copia's hand with his index finger. It was light enough for the priest to consider it a mistake. The Sacré-Cœur stop was fast approaching and he realized he did not feel ready to leave his new friend.

"My name is Giacomo," Copia said suddenly. "Please don't feel obligated to call me Father."

Marcelo leaned forward again to softly say, "Farewell, dear Giacomo. Perhaps we will see each other tomorrow?"

The tram pulled to a stop and Giacomo saw his basilica from the corner of his eye. The artist pressed his face close as he bussed each cheek in farewell.

"God Bless you," Giacomo managed quietly before scurrying off of the tram. He turned on the steps of Sacré-Cœur and watched Marcelo wave goodbye until the tram turned onto another street.

* * *

That night when he had retired to his rooms, Giacomo removed the slip of paper bearing Marcelo's address. 

_"90 Rue Lepic - Marcelo E."_

The priest he shared his room with was deep in prayer at the foot of his bed. Giacomo slipped the address beneath his pillow and and changed into his night clothes. Then he too prayed at the foot of his bed.

He prayed for the parishioners he had visited at the hospital. He prayed for understanding and forgiveness for the strange and impure thoughts he had recently experienced. He prayed for his new friend Marcelo and his cause. He prayed that Marcelo would not be offended when he did not go to see him the following night.

Giacomo climbed into bed, but found no rest. The face of a handsome young artist appeared each time he closed his eyes. He pictured soft black hair falling over a pale eye. He tossed and turned as he considered Marcelo's offer. Surely he could not go, there was no chance of it, but it did not stop him from longing to.

When exhaustion finally claimed him, dreams of acts fit for damnation awaited him.

* * *

Upon waking the next morning, Giacomo was humiliated to find evidence of earthly utterance coating his stomach and nightshirt. It had been years since he had experienced such an event. He washed himself before his brother-priest rose, and slipped Marcelo's address into his cassock as he dressed.

After breakfast and early mass Giacomo sought out the Bishop in his office.

"Father Copia, may I help you?" The Bishop asked curtly. It was clear that he was not in a mood to be disturbed.

"I will be brief, Your Excellency. The director of Hôtel-Dieu has requested my presence until late tonight for a patient being transferred. They fear he may not live till morning. I wanted to make you aware of my absence," Giacomo lied. To his surprise, the deception came easily.

The Bishop barely spared a glance at him.

"You've made me aware, now go," his elder offered in dismissal and turned his attention to the texts on his desk.

Giacomo hurried from the office and the Sacré-Cœur. His rounds at the hospital seemed to drag on endlessly. A feeling between excitement and shame twittered beneath his ribs when he thought of the night ahead. After his last prayer, he calmly bid goodnight to the staff he recognized and left the building.

The tram back to Montmartre passed him as he crossed the bridge near the Louvre and Giacomo broke out into a sprint. There would be another tram in a half-hour, but he knew the wait would drive him mad.

Calls of "Run, Father!" taunted him as he ran. Luckily, the driver waited a moment for him to catch up.

"Always willing to wait for a man of God," the driver told him as he climbed the stairs.

"Thank you," he huffed. Several people cleared to give him a seat and he was happy to take one. Out of breath, he tried to gain control of himself.

While he calmed from his exertions, the twittering feeling he had felt earlier returned. A burning in his stomach also began. The closer the stop to Rue Lepic came, the more intense his feelings grew. At the Sacré-Cœur stop, he sunk low in his seat. Three more stops and he would arrive.

He's only three stops away, Giacomo thought and spared a gentle smile. Images of Hellfire flashed in his head, but he shook them away.

He thanked the driver again as he hopped out onto Rue Lepic. The windmill of le Moulin de la Galette greeted him and he wondered if any of Marcelo's fellow artists were in the restaurant. It was a romantic thought, which he entertained often in the last few weeks.

He followed the street and found number 90 easily. The door to the entrance was locked and he panicked. Aside from waiting for a tenant to let him in, he had no way of contacting his new friend. Had his excitement been for nothing?

"Father! You came after all!" He heard a familiar voice shout from above.

Giacomo looked up and saw Marcelo leaning over a small balconette on the fourth storey. He held a cigarette in his hand and his hair was hanging down over his forehead. The falling sun cast deep shadows over his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks. Marcelo flicked the cigarette across the street and grinned.

"I'll be down to fetch you!" He called and disappeared inside.

Giacomo smoothed his cassock and patted his umber brown hair flat. He stroked the small moustache he had managed to grow and found it in order. He heard feet slapping down the stairs inside and his chest tightened.

Marcelo pulled open the door and made a sweeping motion to welcome him inside. As they climbed the stairs, Marcelo placed a hand on Giacomo's shoulder.

"You nearly had me convinced you weren't coming, Giacomo. But deep down I knew better. Let's get you a change of clothes."

They climbed four flights and reached Marcelo's room. It was a small studio flat. He had not bothered to tidy it, Giacomo noticed immediately. Clothes, canvas, paints, liquor bottles and empty cigarette packets littered the floor.

I shouldn't be here, a voice inside Giacomo warned. He gazed at Marcelo as he bent to pluck clothes from the chaise in one corner and the voice went quiet.

Marcelo sniffed the white dress shirt in his hands and shrugged in satisfaction. He found a waistcoat, trousers and jacket using the same technique and then passed them to Giacomo.

"Here, change into these, I'll wait outside," Marcelo instructed.

Giacomo started to change quickly when Marcelo left, but noticed a few charcoal drawings tacked on the wall near a mirror. The first was a self-portrait of Marcelo from the shoulders up. The second was a study of a hand. The third was a rendering of the male sex. Alone, he stared and wondered if it was Marcelo's. He hoped that it was.

The slamming of a door had him nearly jumping out of his skin. He turned to see the door to Marcelo's flat was still shut, but he heard commotion in the hallway.

"Emeritus, you fucking leech!" A gruff voice bellowed. It went through the wall like it was paper. "You're two weeks late on your rent… again!"

"I'm a wretch, I know," Marcelo conceded. "My brother is here to visit, so I don't have time to discuss terms now," he continued smoothly.

"No terms, you're out! Get your shit and get out!" The proprietor ordered.

"Shh, shh," Marcelo hushed him. In a quieter, more suggestive tone, he spoke again, "Isn't your wife out of town?"

"She's in Orléans visiting her mother for the week," the other man answered in a tone that lacked his previous bravado.

"Well, Claud… I am showing Montmartre nightlife to my brother tonight, but tomorrow… I'm all yours," he purred.

Unchecked jealousy flared inside of Giacomo and his face grew hot. He pressed his ear to the door.

He heard Claud groan. "You won't get out of rent that way again, Emeritus."

A moan escaped the man and Giacomo could only imagine what Marcelo was doing to him.

"I'll let you do whatever you like, all I ask is another week to scrape something together… please?" Marcelo begged.

Claud sighed. "Fine, one week."

Giacomo opened the door and Claud lumbered back. Any jealousy Giacomo had felt disappeared. The man was bullish and grotesque. He hated him for his extortion of Marcelo, but was relieved that it was clear that was all there was between them.

Marcelo grasped Giacomo's hand and darted around Claud down the stairs.

"Tomorrow then!" He shouted as they reached the third floor landing. Outside the building, Marcelo shuddered. "Forgive my language, but I fucking despise that man."

Marcelo released his hand to produce a cigarette. He offered one to Giacomo, who refused.

"Do you have any family that could lend you money?" Giacomo asked, revealing that he had heard everything.

Marcelo chuckled darkly. "I wouldn't give my father and brothers the satisfaction."

Giacomo left it there, not wanting to pry into a clearly sore subject.

"Let's hit Le Chat Noir for dinner and then head over to the Rouge," Marcelo told him. "I'll ease you in, it's your first time, yes?"

Giacomo nodded. "I haven't been anywhere."

"Stay by my side, Giac, and I'll show you everything worth seeing," Marcelo assured him and put his arm around his shoulders.

Inside the restaurant, a pretty young host greeted them and seated them in a booth near the back.

"Thank you, Jeanne," Marcelo told her and pressed a kiss to her cheek. He patted the vinyl seat. "My favorite booth. Closest to the action."

Over a meal of shared flamiche, Giacomo and Marcelo listened to a local jazz band. Marcelo spied Giacomo tapping his fingers to the beat and smiled.

"Tell me more about yourself! I feel like I do all of the speaking," Marcelo urged him.

Giacomo shrugged. "I'm not very outspoken."

"Where did you go to seminary?" Marcelo tried again.

"Rome. I spent much of my youth there," Giacomo recalled. "I was left in a hospital as a newborn and was taken into a Catholic orphanage. I've been a part of the church for my entire life. It is my every waking moment and I don't want to bore you."

"Most of my life is mundane. Quiet painting or sketching, then eating, pissing and sleeping. The last outrageous thing I've done is tempt a young priest out after his curfew." Marcelo took a sip of red wine. "Your sisters at the Sacré-Cœur make a divine pinot noir, by the way."

Giacomo tasted his own glass.

"I've never had it for pleasure, but I do like it." He had previously sampled the amount required for the Eucharist and never more.

They continued to speak until their remaining food went cold, and after a few glasses of wine, Marcelo took Giacomo’s hand.

“You must answer me honestly,” Marcelo began very seriously, “If you could describe your feelings for your church in one word — what would it be?”

Giacomo stared at the table cloth and then at their joined hands for a few moments.

“ _Disillusioned_ is the only word that comes to mind. I think that’s why I came to your flat. My faith in my Lord is true, but the faith I have in my church is shaken more violently with each passing day.” Marcelo smoothed his thumb over his knuckles and waited for him to continue. “We strive to convert, to bring our faith to others, but salvation through fear is… wrong to me. Should we not invite others into God’s love, instead of convincing them that they will be punished if they reject him?”

The priest tossed back the remaining wine in his glass and pulled his hand from Marcelo’s.

“Forgive me, I want to have fun, Marcelo. Show me what a wild, bohemian creature does on his nights out,” Giacomo instructed with a slow smile. His cheeks were pink and his words came more freely. 

Marcelo finished his drink and slammed down a few coins.

“I thought you didn’t have any money,” Giacomo whispered.

“Showing you a good time is more important than rent,” he replied and linked their arms. “This will be the best night of your life.”

* * *

Thousands of lights and the red mill called out to Giacomo as they approached the Moulin Rouge. Finely dressed men and women mingled in line with artists and those who had scraped money together for entrance. Advertisements for Mistinguett the cabaret dancer lined the street, promising “A risqué night of entertainment you’ll never forget!”

They waited in line and upon entrance, Giacomo took in everything with all the wonder of a school boy. Crimson and blood reds dominated the decor. Opulent chandeliers and crystalline art deco pieces hung from the ceilings. Massive bars of dark wood were manned by beautiful women in various states of undress. The lesser known cabaret dancers were dominating the stage and Giacomo saw more of the female anatomy in 24 seconds than he had in 24 years.

A young woman of breathtaking features approached and kissed Marcelo upon the mouth. She had wild ginger hair and a form-fitting white gown that was slit to her hips on each side.

“Darling! You must meet my new friend Giacomo!” Marcelo almost shouted over the din. “He’s a priest, so go easy on him! I’m going to get us a drink!”

The woman laughed as Marcelo headed toward the bar. “What do you really do?” She asked.

Giacomo swallowed. “I am a priest at the Sacré-Cœur.”

She put a hand to her heart. “Forgive me, Father! Well, I am a dancer. I open for Mistinguett. They call me Desiré here.” She offered her hand to him and he took it lightly.

He gave it a chaste kiss. “What do they call you outside of here?”

“I’ll let you guess – turn it around for a while,” she answered with a wink. “Let’s find you and Marcelo a nice seat for the show.”

Desiré brought him to a booth as close to the stage as she could without taking seats from any of the upper crust attendees. The moment he was seated, she reclined back onto him. He tensed and was momentarily at a loss for words.

“I’ll keep you company until Marcelo finds us,” she purred in his ear. She massaged from his knees to his inner thighs. “He left you in good hands.”  
  
“Please stop…” he breathed and the next moment she was on her feet like nothing had happened.

“Oh, darling, I thought…” She began.

“I’ve never… I’m here to see…” He took a breath. “You felt good, but I’m not here to touch, I’m here to observe with Marcelo.”

Desiré gave him a warm smile. “Emeritus loves a challenge, doesn’t he?” She drew the back of her hand gently over his cheek. “Enjoy the show, Father. If you change your mind, I’m here all night.” She sauntered away from him and exited to the side of the stage.

He clasped his hands over the bulge in his pants as Marcelo arrived with two glasses full of a pale green liquid.

Giacomo took the stem of the glass between two fingers and sipped at the spirit. In the low light, it seemed to glow. A taste not dissimilar to black liquorice assaulted his palate. The sheer amount of alcohol was clear on his tongue and reverberated in his mouth. It went down his throat with a burn.

“It’s a terrible drink… but I think I like it,” he admitted and took another sip.

Marcelo chuckled and held up his glass in a toast.

“To my darling new friend!” He exclaimed.

“To my tour guide!” Giacomo added.

When the show began, Giacomo was mesmerized. The dancers were artists and athletes. They were delicate and sultry, and provocative and beautiful. Desiré seemed to cast her eye his way as she performed. She captivated and pulled the audience to their knees. The craving low in his stomach resurfaced and he found himself unabashedly admiring men and women in attendance.

Mistinguett finally went on and Giacomo fell in love. Her performance was everything. It was sensuality and beauty, talent and freedom. He swept stray tears from his eyes as she finished and clapped so hard, he was sure there would be bruises.

The curtains closed and he turned to Marcelo who was staring at him with a very direct gaze. It was a look of extreme hunger and longing.

“I have never beheld someone so pure and beautiful,” Marcelo said softly. It was just loud enough for Giacomo to hear over the commotion of people leaving the room. He placed his sketchbook on the table and turned it for Giacomo to see.

It was a drawing of him gazing wistfully at Mistinguett onstage.

“I look so innocent,” Giacomo remarked.

Marcelo moved closer to him on the booth seat. His fingers shifted from his side and grazed the outside of Giacomo’s thigh. When Giacomo did not recoil, he placed his palm over his knee and stroked up and down a few times. He held Giacomo’s gaze as his hand moved to his inner thigh and worked further upward. Giacomo’s lips parted and he held a breath when Marcelo reached the crook of his thigh. His eyes fell closed when Marcelo cupped him through his trousers. His toes curled in his shoes and he bit his lip.

“You _are_ so innocent,” Marcelo muttered in his ear. “But I’ll take care of you. All you have to do is tell me what you want.”

The artist’s watched Giacomo swallow hard and felt a tremor move through him.

“I should be heading back to the Sacré-Cœur,” he whispered and pushed Marcelo’s hand away. He hid his face in his hands. “I want to go. I need to get my clothes and then I need to go back to where I belong.”

Giacomo’s heart ached when he saw the look of rejection and hurt on Marcelo’s face.

Marcelo nodded and stood, then motioned for Giacomo to follow. For the entire walk back to Marcelo’s flat, he did not try to touch him. He hardly spoke, unless it was to give directions. Giacomo followed Marcelo up four flights of stairs and hesitated before entering his room. Marcelo waited outside as he changed.

When they met on the landing Marcelo started to apologize for being forward, but Giacomo stopped him.

“I am innocent,” Giacomo told him, “and perhaps a slow learner. I hope that we can still be friends, and I would like to visit you again soon.”

Marcelo gave him a sad smile. “I thought you would tell me you never wanted to see a wicked sinner like me again. Or something about damnation.”

Giacomo shook his head. “I admire you. You’re not afraid, but I think I always will be. And I’ve found a perfect place to hide. Good night.”

“Good night, Father Copia,” Marcelo said mournfully and shut himself in his room.

* * *

For the greater part of two days, Marcelo was morose and resigned to never seeing his priest again. Two nights after his outing with Giacomo, he heard the clinking sound of something hitting his window.

He peered out and saw Giacomo standing in the street throwing pebbles.

“I’ve told the Bishop I’m traveling to a prison for confession. Let me up!” The priest exclaimed.

The time they stole together went on in a similar way for weeks. Giacomo invented some reason to remain out past curfew and Marcelo showed him the joys of Montmartre. Both pretended with varying degrees of success that they did not long for each other, and brushed away any perceived advances.

* * *

On a particular night in May, Giacomo arrived later than Marcelo expected. He had been watching for his priest to arrive from his balconette and he raced to open the door for him when he stepped off of the tram. The expression on his face told him that Giacomo was upset.

“What’s wrong, my friend?” He asked and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

It was one of the rare times that Giacomo leaned into his touch.

“They inaugurated the mosaic of Christ in Majesty in the apse today. Every newspaper in France was there. I’m exhausted,” Giacomo explained as they climbed the stairs.

Inside Marcelo’s flat, he gestured to the empty chaise.

“Sit, Giac. Rest awhile.”

The priest reclined with a sigh.

“I thought you were excited last week. It’s an important event, yes?” Marcelo asked and poured a glass of wine. He set the bottle on a clean table nd handed the glass to his friend.

“I see the neglect and lies in everything our Bishop does and it’s… it’s fucking exhausting,” Giacomo groaned and drank deep from the wine glass.

Marcelo’s brows furrowed. He had never heard a curse from Giacomo before.

“Take my bed and have some proper rest away from your troubles. After some sleep, if you still want to go out, we can. But as your friend, I recommend a night in.” Marcelo waited for him to nod and helped him up from the chaise.

Giacomo began unbuttoning his cassock before Marcelo could head into the hallway.

“I can–” Marcelo began.

“You’ve seen a man’s underwear before, haven’t you?” Giacomo countered. He was surly and Marcelo wasn’t sure how to react.

For the first time, Marcelo saw his slight frame somewhat uncovered. Thin arms and firm thighs, he thought. Giacomo rolled into the bed on his side and within moments he was asleep. Marcelo shut the curtains and lit a single candle. He watched Giacomo sleep peacefully and sketched his face in repose.

Giacomo’s dreams were quiet to begin with, but as he slept on, he saw fire. It consumed and engulfed everything around him. When it finally reached him, he swore he could feel it burn him, even though he was sure he was in a dream.

He awoke when he felt a comforting warmth pressing close that was certainly not fire. Thin, strong hands clutched his chest and he felt the heat of breath against his throat. A firm body enveloped his from behind. One of the hands reached up and stroked his face.

“Shh, darling… it was only a dream,” Marcelo soothed him. “I’ll protect you from the fire.”

Giacomo turned in his arms and stared into Marcelo’s strange eyes.

“I’m so afraid to burn,” he cried softly.

Marcelo continued to stroke his face and would for as long as Giacomo allowed it.

“It’s profane to feel what I feel for you, but I can’t make it stop. No matter how many times I tell myself you’re only a friend,” Giacomo went on. Tears welled in his eyes and he gripped Marcelo’s hand hard enough to bruise.

“My silly, innocent Giac,” Marcelo whispered and kissed his forehead, “We could never only be friends. I have wanted you since I saw you at the Louvre. I saw the awe in your eyes like a blind man seeing for the first time. I knew it was fate. I can call you friend until my teeth fall out, but it won't stop me from touching myself while thinking of your face.”

Giacomo sobbed. “Don’t, don’t tell me that. It’s damnation for both of us. So much sin...”

Marcelo cradled Giacomo’s face his hands. 

"Am I a sinner?" He asked.

Giacomo nodded.

"Am I evil?"

Giacomo shook his head.

"Your Lord will forgive you, won't he?"

"We're not supposed to commit sins because we know we'll be absolved. We're meant to avoid temptation," Giacomo reasoned.

“I would rather spend an eternity in Hell with you than spend an eternity alone in Heaven holding onto a lie. Steal some happiness for yourself in this life. For as long as you can have it,” Marcelo implored him. He carefully dipped down to press his lips to Giacomo’s.

Giacomo shut his eyes and allowed it. It was chaste, but he felt moisture coat their lips. It was a stray tear that Giacomo tasted delicately with his tongue. Marcelo met his tongue gladly and pressed for a deeper kiss. Giacomo grabbed onto Marcelo’s back and crushed him closer. Their breath mingled together and Giacomo felt himself grow faint. Marcelo drew back when Giacomo gasped for breath and rested his cheek atop his head.

Firm hands with a gentle touch roved over Giacomo’s body as Marcelo explored him.

“I only want to worship you,” the young artist rasped as he sucked lightly beneath Giacomo’s ear. “I’ll pray to you and exalt you and find ecstasy in you,” he swore passionately.

As his hands moved lower, Giacomo’s breathing hitched. Marcelo paused when he felt a hand on his face.

“I have never belonged anywhere except with you,” he breathed. “I have sought comfort my entire life, and I haven’t felt it until this moment.”

Marcelo kissed him desperately and embraced him. “I love you,” he whispered against his lips. He told him again and again while his hands started roaming. Sure fingers plucked Giacomo’s underwear open and tugged it down from his shoulders. Giacomo could only think to grasp at Marcelo’s sides and waist. He wanted to touch him, but he wasn’t sure how.

“I’m going to touch you… and I daresay you’re going to enjoy it,” Marcelo warned him with a sly smile. It was the confidence Giacomo had fallen for.

A warm hand curled around his member and he froze. Marcelo sensed fear in his eyes.

“Should I stop?” He asked immediately.

“I’ve never… it’ll be quick…” Giacomo managed to explain.

Marcelo’s hand worked up and down his shaft. “We have all night, my love—”

At those words, Giacomo shuddered his release over Marcelo’s hand and his own stomach. He shook as his muscles clenched and he bit his lip in embarrassment. When he opened his eyes Marcelo was lapping at the cum on his hand before he bent down to lick his stomach clean.

“I’ve been aching to know how you taste and you’re so fucking delicious,” he moaned before descending on Giacomo’s lips. The kiss was open-mouthed and desire-filled.

Giacomo pulled Marcelo’s braces down his arms and worked fruitlessly at the closing of his trousers.

“You’re so desperate, but we need to go slower now. Here, I’ll help you.” Together they undressed Marcelo. Giacomo offered tentative caresses, but could not bring himself to be too forward. “Lie on your side and let me hold you.”

Once more Marcelo held him against his chest and showered him in tenderness. He gradually moved his hips forward and pressed himself hard against Giacomo.

“Do you feel me?” Marcelo asked.

Giacomo nodded and Marcelo cupped his firm ass in his hand.

“I want you to feel me inside you. There is a place deep inside you that I will find, and when I do, you’ll die right here in my arms.” Marcelo kissed his neck. “Then I will bring you back to life with a kiss.”

Giacomo chuckled at his nonsense.

“Do you want to feel more, my love?” Delicate kisses peppered the back of his neck.

“Yes, Marcelo,” he sighed and ground backward along the cock straining against him.

For a brief moment, Marcelo shifted away behind him. He heard a glass jar being opened.

“You will feel my fingers now, but I will tell you before I slip them inside, darling,” Marcelo warned.

Giacomo felt them press the sensitive flesh between his manhood and hole. He gasped sharply.

“Relax,” Marcelo breathed, lips against his temple. “Relax into the bed and into me.” Experienced fingers glided carefully downward and lightly circled his hole with a slick substance. “Breath in and then out. As you breath out, I’ll slip a finger inside of you with care. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes…” Giacomo barely uttered. He drew in a breath and held it in apprehension. When he released it Marcelo’s index finger entered him.

He groaned and clenched his teeth.

“Relax,” Marcelo soothed.

“Oh, it burns…” Giacomo hissed.

“Deep breaths, darling.”

Giacomo did as he was told and felt it slip it in further.

“Good boy,” Marcelo praised him. “All the way inside.”

The priest shook his head. “It hurts. Burns,” He huffed.

A hand closed around his softened cock and as Marcelo jerked him the pain ebbed. Soon there were two fingers inside of him, but the only thing that kept him from pulling away was the stroking of his cock.

“I’m going to remove them, and then you will feel me. I will take care of you,” he promised and soon his cock twitched against Giacomo’s hole.

Giacomo twisted his fist into the bedsheet. Marcelo rested his chin on Giacomo’s shoulder and nuzzled him.

“Trust me, my love.” When Giacomo’s hold on the sheet loosened, he pushed the head of his member through the muscle at his entrance.

A low painful groan escaped Giacomo.

“Touch yourself for me. Touch your gorgeous cock for me,” Marcelo moaned to him.

He did and the pleasure countered the pain. Marcelo moved deeper and sighed in frustration. He wanted to buck in hard and feel the moist heat clutching him tight. When he had slid in far enough, he released the base of his shaft and brushed Giacomo’s hand away. He pumped Giacomo teasingly, but paid special attention to the head of his cock.

When Marcelo slipped his thumb across the underside of the head, Giacomo thrusted backwards. Marcelo bottomed out and Giacomo gave a loud gasp.

“Fuck…” Marcelo muttered, the pleasure was intoxicating, but he was worried Giacomo was in pain.

“Yes, you found it. Again, please Marcelo,” the priest moaned and worked his ass back again.

Marcelo gave a deep, smooth stroke that left Giacomo panting. Muscles clenched tight and Marcelo moved again. Steadily, he began to make love to him. He pulled him safely into his arms and buried his face in Giacomo’s shoulder.

Each thrust struck the place Marcelo had promised and Giacomo felt pleasure clawing up front deep within. It wasn't the instant eruption he had felt earlier, it was deeper and more primal. A white heat grew low inside his body and it was expanding swiftly.

Soft moans and cries escaped Giacomo as he was driven to the pinnacle of his pleasure. Marcelo savored his lover’s warmth and whispered words of love in Giacomo’s ear.

“I want this forever,” Giacomo panted and Marcelo came hard with a series of frantic thrusts. 

The thrusting pushed Giacomo over the edge and he called out Marcelo's name in a hoarse whisper. His vision went white and intense pleasure flooded outward from his core. It was so intense that for a moment he truly believed he had died.

The kiss that Marcelo promised him brought him back to earth. Following several wild embraces, they rested in each other's arms.

"Marcelo, I have to tell you something," Giacomo said timidly.

Marcelo nestled into him. "You love me, I know, I know," he teased.

"Yes, but tonight… when I left the Sacré-Cœur. I left a note on the Bishop's desk…" he paused.

His artist gazed at him in confusion.

"It said that I was leaving the church. That I hoped they would not miss me, because not a day will pass that I miss them." He gave an empty laugh. "I've found someone to dedicate my life to outside of the church."

Marcelo raised an eyebrow. "You tell me this now?"

"I didn't want it to sway your feelings if I had hurt you too deeply," Giacomo confessed.

After rolling his eyes Marcelo nipped Giacomo's collarbone. "Silly Giac, I always knew you were mine."


End file.
